Catspaw
by Mark Phippen1
Summary: An Eighth Doctor story, first published in 'The Cat Who Walked Through Time'.


**Catspaw**

by Mark Phippen

'Sometimes,' she said, 'when I look up at the stars in the sky I feel so small, so insignificant. Like whatever I do, whatever I say is of no consequence in the vastness of the Universe.'

            She turned her head to look at him, laying on the grass next to her, staring up at the stars as she spoke. He said nothing, so she continued.

            'Other times, it's as if the Universe is only there for my benefit. That I'm its centre, that the stars spin only around me.'

            She watched his face for any reaction. There was none. No movement except for the fluttering of his curls in the gentle breeze that swept across the field in which they lay.

            'I suppose,' she said,' that it gets easier once you've travelled amongst them as much as you have. I'm guessing that you know your place in the Universe.'

            'You'd think so, wouldn't you,' he said, his face still turned to the stars, 'but I'm still trying to work that one out.'

            'That's easy. You're a hero. Heroes always have a place in the Universe.'

            'And by that reasoning, so does evil.' Finally he tore his gaze away from the stars, and turned to look at her. Right into her eyes.

            'Is that what I am? Evil?' She laughed at the thought.

            'I'm still trying to work that one out, too.' He paused. 'I'm going to have to stop you, you know.'

            'Of course. That's what heroes do. I told you you knew your place.'

They had met that morning, at the library. She had been tidying the children's section, struggling with a pile of Harry Potters, when she first saw him. Dark green velvet jacket, cravat, a handsome face framed by brown curls. Who could have missed him?

            Her heart skipped a beat as she realised he was coming her way. She nearly dropped the books when he stopped beside her flashing her a beaming smile. 

            'Hello there,' he said, 'could you tell me where you keep your poets?'

            'We keep them out the back on bread and water,' she replied, returning his smile. 'Any particular ones you were after? Shelley? Byron?'

            Now he was closer she could see the detail of his clothes, the fineness of the cut. Any other man, standing here in such finery, would have looked out of place, like they were wearing fancy dress. On him, the clothes looked natural, like he belonged in them.

            He took a pile of the tottering books from her arms and helped her put them on the shelf. 'I'm rather fond of the metaphysical poets myself.' 

            'Really? I'd have thought of you more of a Wilde man.'

            'I think you'll find that I'm quite tame really,' he replied, his smile widening. 'I'll make you a deal, you choose a poet and we'll meet later when you've finished here, and read together. Do we have a deal?'

            'Donne,' she said.

He was waiting for her outside the library when she left. It was raining hard, but he seemed dry, like he'd only just arrived. As the library didn't close for another two hours, she briefly wondered how he had known what time to meet her. She supposed he had asked one of her colleagues. Great. They would be full of questions the next morning.

            She didn't know why she had agreed to meet him. It wasn't like her at all. Perhaps that was why she had done it. Her heart wanting change while her head said 'No, things are just fine as they are.' She hadn't even asked his name.

            Whatever the reason, she was here now. No going back. 

            She put up her brolly and he huddled underneath it with her as they ran to her car, a rather aged Citroen 2CV that had seen better days. The man seemed rather taken by it, enthusing that it had character, a warmth that modern cars seemed to lack.

            'Well, I don't know about that. The heating doesn't work.' She grinned as she turned the key, praying it would start after the day's downpour. It didn't like the wet.

            It started first time. It never did that, even on good days; It must like its new passenger.

            It wasn't the only one.

            As she drove, they chatted about poetry. He was very knowledgeable not just about the works, but about the poets themselves, as if they were old friends. She guessed that years of devotion to one subject can imprint information on the brain as if it were always part of you. The minutiae of study taking its place alongside your experiences, becoming part of your makeup.

            But as he talked on it became apparent that poetry was not his only area of expertise. He seemed to be able to talk about anything, always enthusiastic, always knowledgeable. He told her more about the history of the village in which she lived that she had ever learned in her ten years there.

            He was a good conversationalist, always ready with an interesting comment, but also a good listener She found herself talking more than she ever did. It makes all the difference when the person you are talking to seems genuinely interested in what you are saying.

            Eventually they reached her cottage on the outskirts of the village, set on the edge of farmland that stretched across the neighbouring fields as far as the eye could see. The man looked around appreciatively, sucking in lungfuls of air.

            'What a lovely place to live!' he said. 'So remote. I bet you barely see a soul.'

            'Just the occasional sheep,' she replied, grinning. 'Come inside, I'll make us some tea.'

'Excuse the mess,' she called from the kitchen through to the living room where she had left him. 'It's not often I have visitors.'

            'It's charming,' he called back, 'it feels lived in. Homely.'

            The kettle boiled. She poured the water into the pot, and carried it through on a tea tray to the living room. The man was sat on her sofa, petting her cat who had curled up on his lap.

            'Someone likes you,' she said, 'watch he doesn't cover you in fur. He's a right fuzz ball.'

            'What's his name?'

            'Pudovkin. Puddy to his friends.'

            He tickled the cat under its chin, and it purred gratefully, rubbing itself against his chest. 'Your a fine cat, Puddy.' he said.

            'I'll just get changed while the tea's brewing,' she said. 'Make yourself at home.'

She stood looking at herself in the mirror, removing her spectacles to look herself in the eyes. Her long, brown hair was bunched in a hair grip, but the wind and rain had beaten away any sense of shape. She removed the grip and shook her hair down, letting it cascade over her face before brushing it back with her hands. She felt more confident, more attractive with it down, but hardly ever had a reason to do so. She fumbled for her contact lenses. She hated wearing them, and there was no way she could stand to wear them for hours at work. But tonight she would make the effort. 

            'Just what do you think you're doing?' she asked her reflection, which stared back at her pensively. 'Letting a man you've just met into your car. Into your home. You've broken every rule in the book. Broken your own special rules.' The reflection offered no explanation. 

            'Oh, when have you ever talked sense anyway,' she said, walking into the bedroom, and choosing a dress. Nothing too special, don't overdress, just something casual but flattering.

            When she returned to the living room, she found him studying her bookcase, peering along the shelves of tatty paperbacks and dusty hardcovers.

            'An impressive collection,' he said, 'very diverse.'

            'Mostly library rejects,' she replied, walking over to stand next to him, 'staff get first pick of them before we sell them off.'

            He took a book from the shelf and turned it over to look at the cover. '"Vurt". Interesting choice.'

            'Interesting book,' she replied.

            'I don't doubt it,' he said, replacing the book on the shelf. 'I've not read it myself, though I think I have the audio version knocking about somewhere. Didn't think it would be your cup of tea.' He pointed to the table, where, she noticed, he had poured the tea.

            She picked up her cup and took a sip, watching as he continued to scan the books.

            'You've got a lot of non-fiction, on a lot of subjects. Have you read them all?' The question was casual, but she detected a hint of genuine intrigue in his voice.

            'Most of them,' she replied. 'But I did struggle with "The Selfish Gene"'

            'I think even Dawkins struggled with "The Selfish Gene",' he said, turning and grinning. 'Easy to read, but not so easy to swallow. I was discussing it the other day with Dr. Bar-Yam, he's…'

            'Will you stay for dinner?' The question seemed to come out of nowhere, and shocked her even as it left her mouth. She hoped it hadn't sounded too eager.

            But his response was exactly what she wanted to hear.

            'I'd be delighted,' he said, 'on one condition.'

            'What's that?'

            'I do the washing up.'

She was pouring his third glass of wine when he asked the question.

            'Why did you come here?' It was an innocent question, on the face of it, asked casually between mouthfuls of lasagne. But her heart skipped a beat before she realised what he probably meant.

            'To the village?'

            'To Earth.'

            She almost dropped the bottle, spilling red wine over the table cloth. He took it from her and placed it on the table.

            'Sorry,' he said, 'bad timing.'

            'Wh-what do you mean?' she stammered. It was pointless, she knew. He obviously knew the truth.

            'I know you're not from this planet,' he said, 'don't ask me how. It's the little things. You've certainly blended in well. You must have been here a long time.'

            'It feels like I've always been here.' She felt an overwhelming desire to tell him everything; everything she had been bottling up for all these years, unable to tell a soul. She looked into his eyes, saw understanding there. He was the one. She took a breath.

            'I don't remember my home planet. I was three when they sent me here, young enough to be malleable, but old enough to communicate. I was placed in foster homes for a while, before I was adopted by the people I think of as my parents. It was all carefully arranged by my people, I found out later.'

            He nodded, listening carefully, indicating for her to go on.

            'I was five when I first realised that I was different; that other children didn't have a voice in their heads telling them what to do. The voice told me not to tell, that people would think I was mad, would lock me away. So I did what the voice said, and never told a soul it was there.

            'When I was twelve, the voice told me to make contact. I had no idea what that meant but something inside me, some inbuilt mechanism, knew. It was an automatic reaction. I was connected to a group mind; the mind of my people. In an instant I knew all - the history of my people, their current plight, their homelessness. And my purpose.

            'I found out that day that I was not alone. There were many of us, scattered across the planet, each with our own individual task, each of us merely a cog in our people's machine. My individual role was the gathering of information, any information. The history of the planet, the minds that drive it, the social interaction of its people. Anything, it didn't matter what. The idea was that, between us, we would supply the group mind with everything it needed.'

            'For what?' The Doctor's questioned made her jump slightly, so lost had she been in her own story. 

            She looked him in the eye. This was it.

             'For invasion.'

            He sighed. 'It's always invasion. Why can't we all just get along?'

            'You know as well as I do that the humans would never accept us. I've learned enough to know that in my time.'

            'But you haven't answered my question. Why here, why Earth?'

            'It reminds us of home. The home we lost.'

            'What happened?' He sounded genuinely concerned, like it was as important to him as it was to her.

            'The Gresh, that's what happened. They came one night, as we slept, sweeping through our cities, killing all they found, ripping the planet apart. Millions died that night, a mere handful escaped, running away to live a life scavenging on the remains of the planets we scattered to. Dead worlds, left behind by the Gresh as they hopped from planet to planet. We thought we were safe, out in our corner of the galaxy, but something had led them to us. 

            'The planets we found were human colonies, or at least they had been, before the Gresh came. The fools had ventured into parts of the galaxy best left alone, where creatures like the Gresh had lain dormant for centuries. Now they had woken them, and led them straight to us. So, in our search for a new home, we followed the trail left by the colonists. It led here. With scavenged time technology we managed to come here, to the 20th Century; a turning point in human development. If we could change things now… well, perhaps we could change the future. '

            The Doctor's face was ashen. 'The Gresh...'

            'You know of them?' How could he?

            'I've met them. On Venddon. So many lives...' His eyes had clouded over, like his was lost in the past. Then he seemed to snap out of it, his attention returning to the present. 'How will it work, this invasion?'

            'It will be subtle at first. More and more of us will come, taking our places in society, making changes here and there, just little tweaks, making it easier for others to come, in greater numbers. As our numbers swell, so will our influence, and our rate of expansion. It would not take us long to outnumber the humans. They will eventually fade, their numbers reducing over years until they are replaced. The humans will never reach the stars, because there would be no humans.'

            'You would wipe out the human race? That's genocide!'

            'But it would be painless. They would never know. It won't be like the Gresh, not like it was for us.'

            'I cannot allow this!' he shouted, making her jump. 'I will do everything in my power to stop this. The loss of your planet does not make it right to simply take another!'

            He stood up and made for the door, wrenching it open and running into the fading light of the evening.

            'Wait,' she shouted after him, 'come back...' She trailed off as she realised she didn't even know his name. Or why she had brought him here. Or why she had just told him everything. Grabbing a cardigan from the coat hook, she shrugged it on as she chased after him.

            As she left the cottage, she could see him making for the field, leaping over the fence that separated her garden from the farmland. She gave chase, her hair flying in the wind as she too climbed the fence, a little slower than the rapidly disappearing figure, now just a blur of green coat tails.

            As she dropped into the field, she scanned the horizon. It was getting dark now, but even in the fading light she could tell that he had lost her. She ran further into the field anyway, hoping to catch a glimpse of him, but he was nowhere.

            'Come back!' she called, a little feebly. Her voice was shaking too much to shout effectively. 'You never even told me your name!'

            'I am the Doctor.'

            The voice came from behind her, and she spun around to find him there.

            'Why did you come back?'

            'I don't know. Perhaps for the same reason that you told me everything. Told me things you've never been able to tell a soul all your life.'

            'I thought you would understand. I don't know why. I get a feeling that you too are... displaced?'

            'Yes, I suppose I am.'

            She sat down on the grass, still a little out of breath from her atypical exertion. He, she noticed, was not even slightly out of breath. He joined her.

            'I have no choice,' she said, 'this is my life. I can't live it any other way.'

            'There's always a choice.' He replied. His voice sounded old, older than he looked. It was the voice of a man who had seen many things.

            'Tell me your story.' She said.

            So he did.

And so here they are, looking up at the stars, each knowing more about each other than anyone has ever known. They are both thinking of their pasts, and what the future will bring.

            He the hero, she the vanguard of an invasion force. The age old concept of good and evil. But things are never really that simple, are they?

            But of course, as always, he has an idea.

            'I could disconnect you from the group mind,' he said, softly, 'a simple mind block. A relatively easy process. Of course, I would have to identify...'

            The Doctor talked on, but she never heard past the first few words. Disconnection. It was something that had never even crossed her mind before. Something the voice no doubt ensured she never thought about. To be an individual, her mind her own. No job to do except at the library. No-one to please except for the cat. Could she do it?

            'Do it. Do it now,' she said, interrupting the Doctor.

            'Are you sure? It's a big step.' His voice was full of concern.

            She met his gaze, and his eyes looked deep into hers. She nodded, 'I know. But it's one I want to take. To be free.' Just a few hours ago she wouldn't have considered herself anything but free. It had taken this man to make her realise what true freedom could mean. No more secrets, no more living a lie. Living alone.

            'Just one thing, before I do,' he said.

            'What's that?' She hadn't expected this.

            'I need you to let me in, and I need you to connect one more time.'

            She nodded slowly. 'I think I can do that. But why?'

            'I need to know the locations of the rest of your kind here on Earth.'

            She knew then what he was intending to do. 'You're going to disconnect all of us, aren't you?'

            'I'm going to try,' he said firmly, 'I've got to.'

            'There will be many who resist. Those who enjoy their roles too much. We are not all librarians, you know.'

            'Then I'll have to convince them.' His determination was evident. He really did believe he could do this. And who was she to stop him?

            She nodded. 'Are you ready?'

            'As much as I'll ever be.'

            And as she connected for the very last time, she felt his presence riding with her, his mind close to hers. A closeness she had never felt with anyone.

It feels different this time.

            Usually she feels a sense of freedom, as if she has left her earthly body behind, that she can go anywhere, do anything. But this time she feels shielded, guided by another presence. The Doctor. He is shutting off routes, deleting pathways, keeping her journey straight through the network of minds. She struggles against him, but he does not give way. She must not make contact. They must not be found.

            Yet at the same time as holding her back, the Doctor is reaching out to the minds, touching them briefly, subtly, leaving no trace. Gathering information.

            She begins to feel the world close in around her, the previously wide, open space of limitless possibilities growing dark and silent. Part of her mind cries out, desperately trying to hang on to this world that has been part of her all her life.

            Then it is gone. Forever.

She sits alone now. No, not alone; Pudovkin sits on her lap, purring happily as she absently strokes his fur. She feels an emptiness inside, which she assumes is the sense of dislocation the Doctor had warned her about. It will pass.

            But she has a suspicion that it is more than that. That it is not just the voice she is missing.

            She spies the copy of the works of Donne that the Doctor had taken from the library, laying open, face down, on the arm of the sofa next to her. She picks it up and through the blur of tears she had not realised she had wept, she reads.

I FIX mine eye on thine, and there

    Pity my picture burning in thine eye ;

My picture drown'd in a transparent tear,

    When I look lower I espy ;

        Hadst thou the wicked skill

By pictures made and marr'd, to kill,

How many ways mightst thou perform thy will?

But now I've drunk thy sweet salt tears,

    And though thou pour more, I'll depart ;

My picture vanished, vanish all fears

    That I can be endamaged by that art ;

        Though thou retain of me

One picture more, yet that will be,

Being in thine own heart, from all malice free.


End file.
